Hamish
by fasciculus
Summary: As the question of "how did she know John's middle name?" is raised, Sherlock must battle the urge to let his heart rule his head. (Contains spoilers for The Sign of Three)


Yes. She had said "John Hamish Watson." How had the Mayfly known John's middle name? It wasn't as though he told people; it was a stupid middle name, completely embarrassing. It was rare that Sherlock ever heard his friend say the word "Hamish."

_"Hamish… John _Hamish _Watson. Just if you were looking for baby names."_

He and the Woman had been, per se, exchanging compliments in the living room of 221B Baker Street when John had sarcastically blurted it out. Neither of them had offered any response to John's words, though Sherlock had felt marginally embarrassed (naturally, he chose not to portray any such emotion). It wasn't embarrassment regarding the concept of having a child with Miss Adler or because John had mocked their conversation; the embarrassment came from the external addressing of his feelings for her on behalf of John Watson. Sherlock could almost see Irene in that moment now, wrapped in his best dressing gown with her long, wavy dark hair elegantly draped across the blades of her shoulders. He tried to push the thought of her out of his mind; it was entirely unnecessary for her to be there as it was evidently not Irene who had disclosed the information to the young nurse – the Mayfly was a man. As hard as he tried, however, Sherlock could not put his distraction aside.

In front of him, the Woman as he had first met her appeared. She was completely nude, with the exception of her signature Louboutins and diamond earrings, and her long hair was pinned up into victory rolls. Sherlock felt his chest tighten as he looked into her eyes, lined with aqua blue, and for the first time since Karachi experienced the fluttery excitement only she brought him. He knew he could not allow her to divert his attention at this moment – a life was at risk and only he could prevent its loss – but he also knew that he could not divert his attention away from her, not with the lingering thought of her blood red lips and piercing grey eyes. He found it impossible to take his eyes from hers and longed more than anything to run his fingers along her sharp jaw and to have her run her own through dark curls. He felt desperate to relive their short time together in Karachi, to be able to lay beside her in silence through the night with her pale skin pressed against his own and her loose wavy hair spread across her pillow, to be able to briefly be away from everybody he knew and to have his focus in its entirety placed on her, to feel her soft lips on his own and to be entwined in her warm embrace, to hear the sound of her voice and her soft laugh as she sat beside him in their hotel room.

No. He needed to concentrate on the Mayfly, on "Hamish," on saving someone's life. He couldn't lose himself in Irene, not just now.

But he was impatient and desperate to be with her after seeing her face which wore an expression much kinder than the one she had had on for their first meeting. Whilst he knew he didn't need to, his urge to have any interaction at all with her was utterly persistent. Perhaps he could allow himself the Woman, just for a moment.

He wanted to speak to her but knowing that her reply being the compromise of his own imagination was not satisfying enough. He was aware that all he had of her was memories and imagination, though, and so he didn't have a great deal of choice on the matter. He wanted to feel her, to hear her, to have any sense of her other than sight. But it wasn't real. The distraction wasn't real. She wasn't there. He was risking a human life for a few seconds of a wandering thought. It was dangerous, he knew, but…

He couldn't resist. He could feel the vibration, the pulse of the melody he had written for her as he allowed for her to slowly reach out towards him. Contrary to his previous statement, it was not only "God" who knew where she was; it was Sherlock, too. Irene Adler was where she always had been and always would be: right there with him. She slept in the secret heart-ruled part of his mind in the room he had crafted just for her. This particular area of his Mind Palace was graceful and chic, refined to reflect every attribute of the Woman. Its walls were covered with Victorian-style wallpaper and roses the colour she painted her lips filled a vase on her windowsill. Her mirrored dressing table stood in front of the window, his coat draped across its chair. His own bed was situated directly opposite, in which she rested as she had after sneaking into Baker Street – her loose olive top, her wet hair laying on his pillow, her makeup absent, her appearance vulnerable. In the corner was a globe that held drawing pins, marking her movements he had been able to track since they had left one another. The view through the window was that of the balcony of the room they had stayed in in Pakistan, in which they had shared their closest memories. Irene's room was undoubtedly the most beautiful and perfectly crafted in the entirety of his palace and he was confident she would accept no less. And neither would Sherlock. He had spent a large amount of his free time in here, occupying himself with the distraction of the one thing too dangerous for him to have.

Irene brushed her gentle fingertips along his sharp cheekbone, disturbing his every thought about the danger which enveloped the wedding. He felt his pulse elevate and assumed his pupils had dilated just as hers had as they sat in his living room together. Momentarily, Sherlock felt as though she was really there, as though he could really feel her soft touch upon his face.

_"Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side […] love is a dangerous disadvantage."_

Hearing his own words echo in his mind, he suddenly realised just how precarious her presence in his mind really was right now. She couldn't be here. He would have to wait.

"Get out of my head. I'm _busy_." He threw his shrill words straight at her, on his face bearing an expression of pure upset and frustration. Within an instant the Woman had disappeared. She was back in her room in the secret heart-ruled area of his Mind Palace, perhaps sleeping in his bed or wearing just his coat, perhaps singing (it was to his understanding that she was an impeccable singer), perhaps… Sherlock had no idea what she could be doing but he knew he would visit her room once this was all over.


End file.
